It's an Ill Wind
by Newtinmpls
Summary: Not everyone sent to Coldharbor was stolen from a wonderful life. And remember, the Daedric Princes who make up the four corners of the house of troubles exist to test, not to punish. Warning: Graphic depictions of unpleasant situations and actions in the first chapter. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

_Authors Note: Just a little jaunt inspired by watching the character creation process over my best friend's shoulder. Everyone seems to assume that the 'vestige' had some sort of interesting life that should be worth reclaiming. What if that wasn't the case? While I'm musing on the nature of (online) reality, it's worth mentioning that while various factions prefer to interpret daedra as "good" or "bad" they are more the personifications of natural forces, than actual personalities and as such are beyond morality. Molag Mal is a force associated with action toward desire and obstacles to be overcome. This can be interpreted in "good" or "evil" ways and either can be valid._

_Also, according to Morrowind lore, the slave bracers used by most of the Dunmer have keys that are location-tuned; so a key made for any particular location will unlock any slave bracer worn in that location. _

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. **

**A Warning: The horror tag was included in this story for a reason. The second section of this chapter is not for the squeamish. **

**~~It could be worse. Or maybe not~~**

Tabinah Faryon's eyes opened slowly. The pale light visible from the slave barracks told her that it was dawn. It was time to get up. Slowly she uncurled herself from where she'd huddled in semi-sleep for most of the night. She discarded the threadbare blanket that was all any of the slaves were permitted as a bed. She rubbed absently at the gleaming silver bracer on her right forearm.

She was sore from the work she'd been doing recently. Normally she was a house slave, a servant to Muthsera Grulis to do copying and preparation of alchemical ingredients. With the harvest imminent and so many warnings about inclement weather, most of the house slaves had been put to work with the field slaves, tending and weeding saltrice paddies.

Her hands were raw. The skin would be cracked and bleeding before noon. She was limping from a mudcrab claw that had felled two of her fellow slaves before the overseer took it down. There were apparently no bones broken, so it was no considered worth the expenditure of healing energies.

She shivered in the chill dawn. Rations were few until harvest. She'd eaten better as a house slave, and done less physical work. For the last few weeks she'd felt cold all the time. And the unhealed lash marks across her back spoke of how her shivering and bleeding fingers had not been as nimble as the overseers required. She staggered out into the morning light with the other field slaves. Harvest was always like this. After a few more weeks, she would be put back into house service.

"Hurry you S'wit's." The nearest overseer punctuated his growl with a flick of the lash that drew a spatter of blood from an argonian standing next to her. "Those that don't work fast enough will not be fed."

Tabinah wanted to eat. She would work as fast as she could. She followed the ragged lines of fellow slaves out into the fields. She was limping slightly and fell behind. The overseer only chastised her with a few touches of the whip. She felt the rent in the back of her tunic open further, letting in the chill morning breeze.

Despite the hot sun beating down on her, Tabinah felt cold. Her fingers didn't seem to want to work correctly and she frowned as the sharp blades of swamp-merrow cut into her fingers as she yanked them out of the saltrice beds.

All around her, slaves seemed to be moving along their rows of saltrice faster than she was. In a vague sort of way she realized that the overseers would not be pleased.

Noon came, and she had done so poorly that she was ordered to continue while other slaves nearby ate. She kept moving, pulling weeds, patting down the roots of the saltrice. She was hungry, but she would eat later.

Sweat dripped down into her eyes. She ignored it and continued her work. It seemed very bright out.

Things started to blur. She felt unsteady, but tried to keep moving. Keep weeding. She found herself on her knees. She was holding a fistful of swamp-merrow in her right hand. There was some blood oozing from her cracked palm onto the leaves of the plant.

Throw it aside, she told herself. But she just stared at it. Everything felt hot and when she tried to stand the field seemed to spin around her. She wasn't working properly. She needed to work properly. She wanted to be able to eat in the evening with the other slaves.

She staggered up finally, and made her way to the edge of the paddy. She looked up to see a tall angry dunmer yelling something at her. She wasn't sure what he was yelling. His words seemed to make no sense.

He struck her across the side of her head and she fell.

**~~Where am I?~~**

She woke to the sound of metal scraping on metal. She looked around dully. She was in some sort of cave lying on a large stone. Her arms and legs were spread out and restrained. She blinked a few times.

There were torches nearby, but instead of the usual warm glow, they flickered with bluish energies. To her right was a huge carving of some kind that towered over the stone slab she was laying on. It was cold. It seemed like she had been cold for a very long time. She didn't know where she was, but she was so tired that it felt good to just lay here.

Then there was another scrape and a click, and someone in dark robes removed the bracer that had been around her right forearm for so very long. There was a moment of quiet.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. The light was too bright. The stone was hard and uncomfortable underneath her. She felt tired, and grimy, and she was abruptly aware that she stank of sweat and mud. Her hands ached. She clenched her fists and felt sharp stinging from the cuts the swamp-merrow had made.

None of this was familiar. She looked around wildly, only to see that she was surrounded by three of the dark-robed figures. The one closest to her, the one that still held the slave bracer in his hand let out a low chuckle.

He was pale in an attractive way, with dark hair and dark eyes that seemed to take in every detail of her reaction. "Do you understand where you are?" He asked in an Imperial sounding accent that was not at all reassuring.

Her heart started pounding faster. She yanked on the restraints, only to hear the clink of metal. She was shackled to the stone, but withiout the bracer's enchantment, there was nothing to drain away her fear.

She glanced to each side. Dark rusty stains covered much of the stone. Dried blood, she thought at first. Except the cold seeping into her back felt damp. Not all dried then.

"Yes," The pale Imperial seemed to breathe in her fear as if it were perfume. "You begin to understand."

Standing opposite him was another robed figure. this one's hood was far enough down so that Tabinah couldn't tell race or gender. What she did fixate on was the ice-blue slightly curved blade held in gloved hands.

Without thought, she moved herself away from the blade-wielder, back toward the other side of the stone. Glancing up, she looked again at the carvings on the wall.

"Molag Bal." She whispered. One of the great deadra princes, he or sometimes she was the patron of striving and struggling. Rape, conquest, domination, slavery, direct action and opposition; these were all his domain as opposed to the unseen intrigue that was the realm of Boethiah, prince of plots.

"You have," There was a clink, as the Imperial set something down on the stone beside her head. It was a sand-timer no larger than her fist. Crystalline grains were pouring from the top section to the bottom. In only a few minutes the sand would be drained to the bottom. "You have this long left to live." The Imperial speaker's voice was almost affectionate.

"No." She shivered at the seductive tone. And the cold. "No." She said louder, pulling at the chains that held her to the stone. To the altar, she realized.

She pulled against the restrains and her bruised wrists strained against the rusty metal shackles. She was slender, and underweight, and these chains had been made to restrain warriors. The cuff on her right wrist slipped up slightly.

"Oh, by all means do try to escape." The Imperial was no leaning over her, smiling beatifically.

The robed figure across from him did not react, still holding the ice-colored dagger high.

She yanked on the shackles again, and pulled. Pain lanced through her hand as a jagged protrusion of metal cut into the side of her hand. But the blood was making her skin slippery. She yanked again.

"So close." The Imperial's voice was a purr in her ear. "So very close."

She pulled harder. The metal cut deeper into her hand, and blood flowed over her wrist and arm, adding to the layers of rusty stains on the altar. She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. Her hand was shaking from the pain, but one more pull would have her free.

"Too late." The smooth voice was filled with mocking sympathy.

She turned her head just enough to see the last of the sand fall.

Her wrist was almost free. She could feel the cuff slowly sliding loose, blood-slicked and sharply painful.

The ice knife flashed downward and she screamed. But her arm couldn't seem to come free fast enough. She couldn't move fast enough.

Her scream was abruptly cut off by the crystalline blade; the robed figure buried it not in her heart, as she had been half-expecting, but in her throat. Pain and blood and she was coughing and she couldn't breathe and she couldn't scream and so much pain.

**~~Life after~~**

She woke abruptly, curled into a ball in a cold small room. The first thing she did was gag and then her stomach clenched. She would probably have thrown up, but there was nothing to come up.

"So," A guttural but not unfriendly voice addressed her. "New here?"

Tabinah wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Sleeve. She stared at it. Yes, the fiber was coarse, but she was wearing a long sleeved shirt. She slowly staggered to her feet. Pants too. And some kind of open-shoe sandals adorned her feet. It was better clothing than she'd had in many years.

Standing up she didn't feel dizzy. Or nearly as hungry as her memories said she should be. She held out her hands. She'd had a wound on the right one, she was pretty sure of it, but the skin was unmarked. And healthy looking. She stood up straight, realizing that she couldn't feel any pain from the lash marks she'd gotten yesterday. If it was yesterday.

"Hel-lo? You okay?" The voice was gruff, but not unfriendly.

The dunmer turned to see a heavyset woman with skin the color of marshmerrow at dusk. The overlarge lower canines that were visible implied that this was an Orisimer, but Tabinah had never actually met one. Whoever she was, she wore the same sort of rough clothing that the dunmer found herself wearing.

"Greetings, Muthsera." Tabinah was suddenly very aware that she didn't know where she was, or what protocol would be appropriate here.

The Orisimer tilted her head thoughtfully. "That's some kind of title, right?"

Tabinah felt heat rise in her cheeks. She hadn't meant to be rude by using a term that might not be understood. "It's a greeting to someone presumed to be of some rank. It's meant to be a polite hello."

The Orisimer gave a little chuckle, and then obviously failed to hold it in, and burst out in a hearty spirited belly laugh.

Without really knowing why, but caught by the infectious sense of humor, Tabinah joined in.

Finally the Orisimer calmed herself. "By Malakath," she was shaking her head, "I had to come to Cold Harbor to meet a friendly dunmer." She held out a hand. "Durakh gra-Sharn. Pleased to meet'cha."

"My name is Tabinah Faryon," She smiled. She felt good, she was dressed well, and from the distant smells she could pickup, someone was cooking some sort of stew that would probably taste pretty good. Things were looking up.

Then Durakh's words replayed in her mind. Cold Harbor. That was one of the planes of Oblivion, wasn't it? She would have remembered going through a gate. No, she definitely didn't have any memory like that. All she could remember was ... was a flash of crystalline blade. An Imperial voice at her ear.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders. "Breathe, dunmer, just breathe."

She held onto Durakh's arms. They felt strong and solid. "I was ... " She couldn't finish it.

"You were sacrificed." The orisimer said calmly. "You were killed. We all were."

Tabinah looked around. They were in a small room with a grate for a door. Visible beyond the grate was an irregular stone corridor with many other grate doorways. She could hear voices, and see people in some of the nearby cells. It was a prison, but not like anywhere she'd ever been. Now that she looked for it, she could see that the very air had a faint luminescence to it, and there was a weave of magicka through everything that was nothing like anything she'd sensed before.

She was not on Nirn.

She had been murdered.

"We're all dead." Tabinah spoke haltingly, "everyone is. Everyone here is dead." She raised her right arm and looked carefully at her sleeve again. "Finally I have a nice shirt," She mused aloud. "And I had to die to get it."

Durakh looked startled for a moment, and seeing that Tabinah was serious, the orisimer started laughing again.

After a moment, Tabinah joined in.

**~~Deus Ex Machina~~**

They were interrupted by a glowing flicker that appeared at the grated entrance to their cell.

Beyond the cell doorway, Tabinah noted similar flickers at the entrance to many of the nearby cells. Beside her she noted that Durakh's posture changed; the orisimer was suddenly up on the balls of her feet, arms held tense. Was this a trick? A trap?

A low voice spoke from the flickering light. "Careful, vestige. You have been through a terrible ordeal." There was an odd echoing quality to the voice, as if the dunmer was hearing it from multiple locations at once.

The voice was Imperial, and Tabinah felt tension sing through her muscles. She wasn't going to be caught so easily this time. She was no easy prey trapped in slaver's shackles now.

"Who are you, Sera?" She asked warily.

Beside her at the same moment, the orisimer said, "Are you some kind of ghost?"

"I'm a projection," The flicker seemed to resolve slightly into a bluefish humanoid form wearing tattered robes.

Despite his reassuring tone, Tabinah still felt wary. Those robes reminded her a great deal of the Imperials who'd killed her. And the voice – this was another Imperial. She had no desire to be caught up in some outlander's political scheming.

The voice continued. "I am also a prisoner."

Durakh relaxed then. "Then there's not much you can do to help us, is there?"

"I am the past and the future. I am despair and hope."

The orisimer shook her head. "You, my cloudy friend, have been at the skooma pipe too long."

Ignoring the Imperial, who continued to wax eloquent about tapestries and fate and himself as the prophet of all these various things, the orisimer turned to Tabinah. "We need to get out of this cell."

"Take up arms," The Imperial ghost – or whatever he was – advised. "You must protect yourself."

Irritated, Durakh turned back to face him. "Do you see any weapons in this place? Or a key to the door for that matter?"

"Someone will open your door." The self-proclaimed prophet advised them. "Then you and Lyris Titanborn will rescue me. And I will rescue you."

"Damn arrogant Imperial," Durakh muttered. "He's not even actually here and he's ordering us around."

Tabinah found that despite her distrust of the ghostly prophet she rather liked the idea of being able to rescue someone. Still, she wondered. "Is this the afterlife? It's not what I expected of Azura or Boethia's realms."

They heard the sound of running footsteps, and both of them turned to the doorway as the sounds came closer. An argonian followed by several altmer was hastily moving along the cells, unlocking them. "Hasste musst be made!"

"Get to the armory," Advised the raggedy ghost. "Arm yourselves and find Lyris Titanborn. We shall lead you to freedom from the Coldharbor and its Lord of Lies."

The argonian came to their door and made short work of the lock. "Seek what freedom you may, softskins." He sounded more anxious than hopeful.

Before he could step away from their doorway, Tabinah put her hand to his forearm. "I thank you for your kind service, Sera."

"Durga-sin, this one iss called." He gripped her arm with his own. "Your sspirit is sstrong yet. Beware the fate of the soul-shriven."

"The what?" Tabinah asked, but he had already moved farther down the line of cells.

"Soul shriven." Durakh repeated from next to her. "Doesn't sound good, does it?"

They stepped out of the cell. A steady stream of former prisoners were headed along the corridor. Not two cells down, there was a body on the ground. It looked to be some kind of mer, but off somehow. Tabinah frowned, trying to place the difference.

"Old before his time? The skin doesn't look right." Durakh growled. "If this is Coldharbor, it's a place of daedra, not men or mer."

"Coldharbor," Tabinah slowly repeated the word. Long forgotten lessons tugged at her memories. "Molag Bal's realm."

"Do you know any lore that might help us?" The orisimer asked, "Aren't there some dunmer legends about that particular daedra?"

"Yes," Tabinah knelt at the side of the fallen guard. "One of those who tests our strength and resolve. Malog Bal is the Prince of desire, of striving, of pride and effort." As she absently answered the orisimer's question, Tabinah turned the fallen guard onto his side. His skin looked pale and old, like a long-dead corpse. But he was only cool, and there were no obvious wounds. So what had killed him?

She looked closer at the armor, which had appeared to be some sort of scale mail. It wasn't actually armor, but a part of the being. Who wasn't like anything she'd ever seen or heard described.

"Can you tell what killed it?"

Tabinah shook her head. "I'm not even sure it was ever really alive." She examined it closer. Despite the lack of real armor, the thing wore a belt that could be removed, and in it were sheathed two longknives. So here she was freeing herself to take action in the realm of one of the Princes of testing, and the very first weapons she found were those in which she had some skill. She wasn't fool or ignorant enough to think it coincidence.

"I shall take these." She unbuckled the belt.

"Hmph." Durakh grunted. "I'd do better with an axe, myself."

"Maybe we'll find one."

"You seem pretty hopeful."

Tabinah stood up. She was out of the cell, dressed and armed and feeling stronger than she had in a very long time. She smiled at the orismer. "Coldharbor is a place of testing, not a realm of punishment. If he who sent us here thought it would be the end of us, he has a most unpleasant surprise in his future."

"Well spoken, blade-sister." Durakh said approvingly. "Never trust an Imperial to truly understand the lessons of the daedra." She swept her gaze ahead to where the corridor widened. "Now, if I can find that axe, we'll see about passing this test."


	2. Chapter 2

_Authors Note: Imperials seem prone to interpret daedra as "good" or "bad". It's more accurate to say the are more the personifications of natural forces, than actual personalities and as such are beyond morality. Molag Mal is a force associated with action toward desire and obstacles to be overcome. This can be interpreted in "good" or "evil" ways and either can be valid._

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention.**

**~~The Soul Shriven~~**

Tabinah Faryon admitted to herself that Durakh gra-Sharn was much better company than she'd expected. The orisimer had a stubborn streak and a sense of humor, both of which were needed in this strange place. If it really was Coldharbor, and Tabinah was willing to accept that it was, then the important thing was to keep striving.

It was cold, but the dunmer had faced worse. What she found rather distracting was the fact that there was no real sunlight. The landscape seemed bathed in a bluish light and tinged with an almost palpable fog of magicka that made the air seem heavy. It was hard to describe exactly.

Once outside of the complex of caves that had initially been their prison, the dunmer and the orisimer kept walking.

They had no clear destination. For the moment any direction seemed as good as another. The rocky ground cleared, and occasional twisted shrubs were visible. They came to an open area. A few tent style structures scattered around spoke of the beginnings of a settlement of some kind.

Durakh spun the axe she'd found as easily as Tabinah might twirl one of her longknives. "Shall we seek supplies or perhaps counsel?" She gestured to a figure wearing a rough homespun robe and standing near the entrance to one of the nearby tents.

The orisimer gave the silent figure a wave of greeting with the hand not holding her axe. "Blade and bone, do you lead and guide among this camp?"

There was no reply.

"Are you deaf or just rude?" Durakh's voice was lower now, and her axe was no longer held so lightly.

Tabinah put her hand to the orisimer's weapon arm. "Look at him." She wasn't entirely sure it was a him.

Durakh strode up to the person and gave him a slight shove. There was a little shift in position, but no change in expression. Nothing.

"Look at his eyes." Tabinah said softly. Open, but no pupils. He stood, and his chest moved as he was breathing, but there were no sounds of air moving. His skin was tinged with blue, but everything here had that strange hue.

"What is wrong with him?" The orismer's voice was sharp.

The dunmer turned slowly. There were other figures standing around this camp. Or what had once been a camp. None of them were moving. "It's not just him."

"Had you a mirror, you would ssee the danger you musst resisst." The gravelly voice behind them announced the presence of an argonian.

Tabinah turned. He wasn't like any argonian she had ever seen. His hide was pale and somehow withered looking. His eyes were pale as well, though she could still make out some color, unlike the passive members of this former camp. She stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Tabinah Faryon," She introduced herself, "it seems that you have an understanding of what has happened to these poor folk?"

"This one is called Er-Jaseen," the argonian shook her hand, and his grip was not nearly as frail as he appeared. "All who are to be found here – all that are not daedra, We are the vestiges of people whose ssouls were stolen by ... The Prince of this Realm. None dare utter his name in this place. The Ssoul Shriven are doomed to sslavery in Coldharbour for eternity, sstriving until we are no longer useful."

"No longer useful?" Durakh echoed his comment, "do you mean like this one?" She gave the still silent camp member another push. His body maintained his balance, but still there was no reaction.

The argonian nodded, his expression sorrowful. "The longer we remain here, the less ... whole we remain. Our bodiess waste away, our hide thinss, and eventually our mindss twist and lose any notion of reality."

"Wait," Tabinah protested, "you can't mean this happens to everyone."

"The oldest of the Soul Shriven are completely insane." Er-Jaseen assured her. "We call them Ferals."

"All of them? Every one?" That didn't sound right. That couldn't be right. Malog Bal would not creat a test that none could pass. "Are there any who resist this transformation?"

The argonian cocked his head to one side. "Well," he admitted, "There iss one – ancient among the Ssoul Shriven – who yet remainss himsself. Blind and withered, yess, but not like thesse." He gestured to the silent figures around the camp. "Many claim he was mad long before arriving here. He iss ... different."

Durakh snorted. "Where one is different, others may be as well." She hefted the axe she carried. "Let us meet this different one."

A hissing interrupted their conversation.

The three turned to see a floating figure undulating toward them. Tabinah watched its movements, and the way energies played up and down its skin. She would have called it a flame atronach, but for the pale blue color that seemed to touch everything here.

The graceful figure gestured, and a ball of blazing flame hurtled toward them. So even fire was another color here, Tabinah thought to herself.

She ducked left. Durakh dodged right. Er-Jasleen dropped to the ground.

Tabinah was sure that Durakh would charge the creature; before that, the dunmer was determined that she would begin the attack. She lashed out with her mind and magika, calling up the flames that were her birthright.

Instead of the blaze of flame that she'd expected, what came out was a whipcord coil of burning force, lashing around the middle of the twisting fire-being and disrupting the sphere of flames it was building. Not wanting to waste whatever it was that had happened, Tabinah gave a yank keeping the creature off balance and pulling it closer.

Making it that much easier for the charging orismer to swipe her axe in an arc that sent sparks and bits of flame spinning in every direction.

Er-Jasleen gave a hiss of rage from where he'd dropped, and reached out with a taloned hand. A burst of momentarily golden light shone on the creature, and all along the right side of it, once pristine flame crisped to ash. The creature gave a shriek, and crumpled into dust.

Durakh turned and looked down at the argonian approvingly. "So, your mind doesn't appear to be wasting away quite yet if you can still call magicka like that."

The argonian looked at his hand, turning it this way and that. Then he looked up to the two mer. "It hass been long," he whispered, "Thiss one felt he wass fading." Getting slowly to his feet, he added. "Questionss you have, and I am the better for your assking. I shall show you the path to the eldest of the Ssoul Shriven."

"Wait," Tabinah held up a hand. "This camp and all that it holds is no longer of any use to these poor souls. So let us examine what we may find here."

The first thing she explored was a sort of shelf that appeared to hold several books, a small urn and a few baskets. She found unfamiliar grains, and some meat that didn't smell too badly. The book wouldn't open. It was a solid mass, and something about it made her think of the way that the men or mer – she wasn't even sure which these had been – were fading. As if it had only held its form because someone was reading it or paying attention to it.

The first camp netted them mostly portions of grains and meat, and a few vials of what looked to be water. Durakh found a pair of heavy sabatons and was happy to discard the flimsy sandals she'd been wearing. Folded in a corner of one of the tents, Tabinah found a large linen robe, and insisted that Er-Jasleen wear it.

It fit, and covered the rough homespun breeches and shirt. Tabinah noted that he seemed more clear headed afterwards. She thought about that. Things did not seem to work the same way here as on Nirn. If that book really had started to sort of dissolve because no one was paying it any attention, then perhaps by valuing each other, the three of them might be able to resist the fading that had destroyed the Soul Shriven at that first camp.

For just a moment she felt optimistic. They would work their way toward this ancient Soul Shriven, and systematically search for supplies along the way. Surely they could keep each other strong.

Then two yelping growls announced the immanent presence of predators. Two slender crouched figures skittered forward.

"I'll take the one on the left." Tabinah stepped wide, reaching out with the same coil of flame she'd used earlier. It didn't seem to do a whole lot of damage, but pulling the scrabbling creature onto it's side was worth the energy she spent.

While the creature struggled to right itself, the dunmer stepped in, both long knives in hand. Feint with the right toward it's eyes, follow up with a slash to the face when it flinched away. The blades felt good in her hands.

To her right she caught a flash of wide blade as Durakh danced out of range of the creature's claws, circled the axe around her head and then buried it in the chest of the hapless thing. Dark something spattered, but it didn't appear to bleed the way mortal flesh did.

Tabinah's opponent charged forward, and she didn't dodge quite fast enough. Claws bit into her arm. Since she was already within its range of attack, she decided that pulling away would make things worse. She stepped in, and thrust her right blade forward, followed half a beat later by the left. It started to dodge, and the first blade only brushed its ear. The second took it through the eye. She twisted the blade sharply, and the thing stiffened and fell.

She didn't have to look up to see how Durakh was doing; the head of the other creature rolled over and stopped near her right foot.

The orismer said something in a pleased guttural tone, then followed it up in aldmeris. "I am getting damn fond of this axe."

"Those are ... or rather were ferals." Er-Jasleen's tone was admiring.

They continued on, working their way toward a river that Er-Jasleen assured both of them the eldest Soul Shriven would be waiting. The journey took a long time, though Tabinah never felt the need for sleep. Nor did the sky change or any sun set. There was no way to tell how much time had passed. The dunmer also noted the lack of any hunger or thirst. This she absolutely did not trust, and she made a point of cooking some of the meat over small campfires that didn't seem to give off as much light or heat as usual. She rested after each meal, despite Er-Jasleen's assurances that it wasn't necessary.

Tabinah pointed to one of the Soul Shriven who stood over the bedroll she intended to use. "Do you observe that the Feral Soul Shriven do not attack these?"

Er-Jasleen frowned thoughtfully.

"They lack something that we have. Something that the Feral ones seek. Perhaps even seek to consume."

"Purpose." Durakh hung her axe at her belt. "They started as beings similar to who we were in life, fading in action and identity. After all look at them," She swept an arm to gesture to the Soul Shriven standing silently at the side of the bedroll. "I can't even tell if this one was male or female, man or mer. Then beyond just passive, they are swept into motion, called to pursue and attempt to consume that which they once were."

"So," agreed Tabinah, "I will retain my purpose, resting as is proper after a meal." She lay back, but before she could close her eyes she heard something. Sitting up, she cocked her head. Sound was difficult to follow here."

"Something?" Durakh asked.

All three went silent, and the sound came louder.

The strumming of a lute. Granted, it had apparently been tuned in a rather discortant minor key, but defintely a lute.

Then a gruff but cheerful voice.

"_One fine day in the middle of the night, _

two dead kings got up to fight.

Back to back they faced each other,

drew their bows...

and stabbed themselves.

"

"The eldest." Er-Jasleen pointed ahead to where a ragged group stood in a half-circle. Behind them a wide river flowed sluggishly. "Many come to listen to him."

Durakh and Tabinah exchanged glances.

Finally the orisimer said. "Now what does that remind me of?"

Er-Jasleen looked from one to the other of his new companions. "Indeed. You ask questionss that change what thiss one seess."


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Notes: I am absolutely certain that Cadwell's musical repertoire is much more than could possibly be displayed considering the limitations of online gaming and computing. _

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention.**

**Credits: the poem 'The Jumblies' is currently in the public domain, but was originally written by Edward Lear. Check it out – and read it aloud to your favorite 5-year old. **

**~~Warming By The Fire~~ **

Tabinah Faryon and Durakh gra-Sharn slowly approached the irregular group gathered around the aged looking lute-player. Few of them showed much reaction to his song, but he nodded his head as cheerfully as if the scattered applause was a hearty accolade.

This close, they could see that the erstwhile bard was wearing the same sort of homespun that most had on and was wearing a three legged cooking pot as a helm. He was holding a short-necked lute.

"Well, I've hardly _begun_ to demonstrate my versatility. How about a rousing tale of exploration and adventure, what?" He bent over the lute again and strummed a sprightly tune. His voice was rough, but merry as he sang:

_Far and few, far and few,_

_Are the lands where the Jumblies live;_

_Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,_

_And they went to sea in a Sieve._

Pausing in the lyrics, he kept strumming as he looked about at the assembled audience. "Now catchy, what? So when the chorus comes round again, join in!"

Durakh frowned slightly. "Jumblies?"

_They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,_

_In a Sieve they went to sea:_

_In spite of all their friends could say,_

_On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,_

_In a Sieve they went to sea!_

_And when the Sieve turned round and round,_

_And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"_

_They called aloud, "Our Sieve ain't big,_

_But we don't care a button! We don't care a fig!_

_In a Sieve we'll go to sea!"_

He gestured with the neck of the lute, and began the chorus. A few hesitant voices joined in.

_Far and few, far and few,_

_Are the lands where the Jumblies live;_

_Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,_

_And they went to sea in a Sieve._

Tabinah was looking closely at the assembled listeners. She murmured quietly. "I don't think these are fading quite the way those Soul Shriven at the camps did."

The orisimer nodded. "You may be right. He feeds them with song, and they feed him with attention. Perhaps being alone here is the greatest danger."

Near the bench upon which the lute player rested, there was a chair, and sitting on it, a small instrument that Tabinah did not recognize. It looked like a drum head, but round the edges were small metallic plates. As she considered what it might be, a chunky looking small creature that looked like a mini version of a very overweight cliff racer hopped onto the chair. With a stubby looking beak, it poked at the drumhead.

There came a jangling sound as many of the little metallic plates shifted. Apparently they were only held loosely in place.

The lute player paused in his singing and softly strummed a few chords. "Excellent suggestion my good friend Honor. A bit of accompaniment on Pandeiro would be _just_ the thing!" He looked around to the assembled listeners, as if gauging who to choose.

Durakh stepped forward. "Can you teach me to play such a thing?"

Tabinah blinked in surprise. The orisimer certainly did not waste time.

"Ah, a new student of the musical arts, is it? Well, I say it's quite the beginner's instrument, a delight to learn. You'll see a grip on one side, just pick it up and shake in time to the music. Honor is more into the percussive aspects of playing, but I rather suspect that is because he has no hands."

Durakh picked it up. Tabinah could see that there were small openings round the ridge where the pairs of metal disks had been inset, and one wider space clearly meant as a handgrip. The orisimer gave it a long shake and the disks jangled quite loudly. If someone had crossed wind chimes and over-enthusiastic drumming, this would be the result.

"Off we go!" The lute player spun into another verse.

_They sailed in a Sieve, they did,_

_In a Sieve they sailed so fast,_

_With only a beautiful pea-green veil_

_Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail,_

_To a small tobacco-pipe mast;_

_And every one said, who saw them go,"_

_0 won't they be soon upset, you know!_

_For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,_

_And happen what may, it's extremely wrong_

_In a Sieve to sail so fast!"_

At the end of verse the lute player gestured with his instrument to those nearby. Taking the hint, Tabinah started clapping rhythmically, doing her best to recall and sing along with the strange lyrics. Durakh alternated between shaking the Pandeiro and holding it out so that Honor, who was still perched on the chair, could reach over and give the thing a hard peck that sounded sharply on the drumhead.

_Far and few, far and few,_

_Are the lands where the Jumblies live;_

_Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,_

_And they went to sea in a Sieve._

The song had more verses than Tabinah had expected, and each was more obscure than the last. She'd never heard of owls, or cranberry tarts or stilton cheese, and she wondered if just possibly he was making up verses and imaginary things on the spot. Although if he was, that probably boded well for his continued survival in this strange place.

The applause was louder this time, but still faded quickly.

Durakh was the first to step forward. "We seek a way out of this place; a path that will return us to Nirn. Can you help us?"

Caldwell looked surprised. Tabinah presumed that he was startled at the very idea of leaving Coldharbor, but his first words corrected that misunderstanding.

"Well, isn't it just the day for incredible things, what? That blonde half-giant seems to think she's headed back to Nirn, and here you are ready for the same adventure!"

"Half-giant?" Durakh asked.

"Lyssa Titanborn?" Er-Jasleen put in at the same moment.

Caldwell's expression brightened. "So you have met the dear girl, yourself, have you? She does tend to stand out in a crowd. Especially when she starts in with that oversized axe of hers. Thins things out, it does."

Er-Jasleen said. "She was the one who ssuggested the prisson revolt. She sspoke to many, urging us to free our fellowss, to take up armss and fight."

Cadwell nodded genially. "Quite right, nothing like a good revolution to warm the blood – brings out the suicidally heroic in a person."

Honor gave a short noise that was apparently meant as agreement.

Durackh asked. "Can you tell us where she went?"

"Well by all means," Cadwell gestured to what Tabinah had arbitrarily thought of as the eastern part of the river, "She can use all the help she can get. The prisoner she intends to rescue is in a pretty sticky wicket. If you fancy the idea of fighting your way through monsters, traps and possibly a few other things I think you'll enjoy catching up to her. Well, always assuming you survive the journey."

Tabinah's eyes widened. That sounded dangerous. She was aware of Durackh's grin. Danger and Orisimer. They just went together, didn't they? From the way that Durackh hefted her axe, Tabinah suspected the orc was ready to head off instantly.

The dunmer wanted a bit more information first. "You said monsters, traps and other things?" Tabinah said cautiously.

"The higher ranking guards, daedric nobility and whatnot. Difficult chaps at the best of times. They do tend to be a bit more testy than usual after the odd revolution or prison break."

"Wait," Er-Jasleen, held up a taloned hand.

Tabinah noted it looked slightly less, well, withered than when she'd first seen him waving folks along in the prison cell corridor.

"You mean there have been other prison breaks?" The argonian seemed troubled.

Cadwell looked surprised at the question. "Indubitably. Heroic types being what they are, every so often someone escapes, or some such adventure. Combine a few optimists, and it's just a matter of time before they decide that facing off the daedric nobles will be that much more dramatic if there's a riot at the time."

The three former prisoners absorbed this information silently.

Cadwell continued. "Now while there is the odd individual who is naturally heroic, well, that's just not always the case, what? So most of the prisoners, once free aren't looking for battle. They just want to settle down. And this is a lovely place, so of course some of them settle here." He waved his hand to indicate the various tents and campsites where the soul-shriven silently stood.

Er-Jasleen seemed to shrink into himself. "What happens to them?"

The odd knight shrugged. "Well, a life lived just trying to avoid trouble – that's no life at all, really." He nodded to one of the members of his audience, who stood silently immobile.

Tabinah felt cold settle into her belly. Just a little bit ago, she was sure that individual had been applauding. A little, anyway.

Cadwells said. "When you can't appreciate the joys of life, can't take in the beauty around you, can't relish the occasional spot of gallant questing, well then you just fade away. Happens a bit faster here is all."

Durackh hefted her axe. "Well then I say let's move.

Cadwell strung a few bars of a rousing march on his lute. "Excellent! And if by chance you do survive, do stop by and tell me how it went, what? I sense the making of quite the heroic tale!"


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Notes: I'm still working out the ramifications of a person being soul-trapped and sent to Cold Harbor. I disagree on a theological and metaphysical level with some of the logic in the game (but what the hey, ES is much more concerned with storytelling and customer service than they seem to be with tying up every loose end. Actually I think that they like loose ends...). __The widespread use of way shrines, soul gems and whatnot by multiple player character escapees from Cold Harbor, regardless of the "Vestige" (singular) way it's presented to any given character, would have to result in some sort of metaphysical effects on Nirn, or more properly on the relations between Nirn and Cold Harbor. More about that in future chapters. _

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention.**

**~~Honor's Gift~~**

Her companion Durackh gra Sharn hefted her battle-axe in salute to the withered but cheerful looking lute player. "Cadwell, it has been an honor to meet you, and I thank you and Honor for the musical lessons," Here she nodded solemnly to the silvery creature that looked like a cross between a lizard and a guar. "If ever there will be a tale about our exploits returning to Nirn, you two will be the ones to play it."

Honor preened at it's stubby wings with it's short beak.

Cadwell cheerfully tilted the three-footed cooking pot he used as a helm. "A delight to meet you, my dear, truly a delight."

Honor interrupted with a concerned series of cries that sounded to Tabinah like a very ill Cliff Racer.

Cadwell's eyebrows raised so far they were lost to his cooking-pot helmet. "You don't say? Well, very well then!" He gestured imperiously to Durackh. "Honor has chosen you for a great responsibility."

Durackh's eyes widened.

Honor hopped off the chair where the Panderio that she'd been learning to play now rested. Giving a nod that obviously instructed her to follow, the little bantam guar trotted over to a small basket resting on the bottom shelf of what might once had been a bookcase.

Within the basket, in a circular collection of strings, dried entrails, and what could possibly have been shredded fungi of some kind, rested three irregularly shaped things. Tabinah wasn't sure what they could be.

"Eggs." Durackh's voice was reverent. "Your, eggs, Honor?"

Honor replied in that same concerned tone.

"The poor things have quite the time hatching here in Cold Harbor," Cadwell translated, "and being that you have shown skill, and a zest for life, Honor would like you to take one with you. Keep it close, touching your skin is best. When it hatches, the little one will be able to communicate its needs." In a much more light tone he added, "With Honor as its parent, it's likely to be able to eat most anything. Might have a bit of a sweet tooth."

Honor made a chiding noise.

Cadwell smiled affectionately. "Or that could just be me. I would like to get my hands on a decent bottle of Aldmeri wine; haven't had a good toddy in ages." He shook himself out of the semi-reverie and instructed the Orismer, "choose the one that seems right, and be off with you. Adventure awaits!"

Durackh squatted near the nest, examined it closely and then turned to Honor, "Choose the one that seems right?"

Honor nodded solemnly.

"Very well." So saying, the Orismer reached in and picked one.

Tabinah noted that it had mottled pattern. After a second it seemed like they came into focus and made a repeating pattern of interlocked axe heads. She wasn't sure if that was because she was only now seeing it, or if it was somehow a response to having been chosen by Durackh.

The Orisimer tucked the egg under the leather hauberk she was wearing. "It'll stay in place here," she chuckled, "and most of my enemies will be going for a limb, rather than my chest."

Cadwell raised a bottle of greyish looking thick liquid as a toast. "Right-o; no gentle knight would strike you there, and the ruffians will have other ideas. Now off with the lot of you." He nodded again in the direction that Tabinah Faryon had arbitrarily decided to call "East".

"Do carry on bravely!" He strummed his lute again.

Tabinah found herself wondering if he was considering writing a song about them.

**~~Catching Up~~**

Several dead fire atronachs and quite a bit of sloshing through knee deep water later, they ran into something different. A klunking sound was the only warning, when abruptly a dozen or so rusty spikes burst out of the water ahead of them.

"Sshellss of my children'ss eggss." Cursed Er'Jasleen.

After a couple of moments, the spears sank back down, with a slightly softer ka-chunking sound.

Durackh looked around. "If we had some sort of spear, or something we might be able to detect the edge of whatever pushes them up before just stepping onto the damn things."

Tabinah wasn't too familiar with any of the luminescent fungus that seemed to abound here, but from earlier examinations, she was pretty sure it wouldn't hold together well enough to form any kind of staff, or at least not one long enough to meet their needs.

"I sshall go ahead, comradess." Er'Jasleen said in her gravely voice. Moving in a crouch, she managed to take steps that were much longer than either of the others could have done.

A few more yards and she paused. "Something. I feel a sort of ridge."

Taking their time, and exploring the edges, it became clear that there were small levers along the edges of the traps. Going slowly, it was easy enough to disarm them.

Though Tabinah turned, and sure enough, they also seemed to reset after a short time.

The water moved only slowly. Aside from the sounds of the triggering of the traps, and the resetting of the levers, it was a very quiet journey.

They had come to an area where several urns and a large box were floating, when sounds of sloshing came from behind them.

"Wait!" The voice was cultured and demanding.

Durackh turned first, hefting the double bladed axe she carried. "Do you greet us, stranger?" Her voice was an open challenge.

A silver-haired surprisingly broad-shouldered mer was making haste through the waters toward them. "If you seek to leave this place, then I shall accompany you." He stepped foward and flipped back his hair, managing to use the irregular illumination to highlight his aquiline features. "After all what do women and beasts-"

He was interuppted by a loud sound.

Tabinah opened her mouth to warn him, but she never got a word out.

Spears shot upward, impaling him several places, and turning his last comment into an unitelligable garble. He struggled breifly, and then the whole thing sank into the water again, pulling him, still struggling weakly, under the water.

"We have to-" Tabinah started to say, and then as the dark stains spread through the water, and the faint ripples calmed, she let it go. He was already dead.

"The river flowss onward." Er'Jasleen spoke in a quiet, reverent tone.

Durackh sighed. Then she slowly made her way toward the remains.

"We can't bury him." Tabinah said softly.

"If he was carrying anything, he no longer needs it. But we might." Carefully the Orismer made her way back to the spears in question.

Tabinah found that she couldn't look away. She was grateful that Durackh's body sheilded her from much of a view. After a few minutes, the Orismer returned.

Er-Jasleen asked. "And what hass the river provided?"

"A couple of bottles of snake sweat, and a pair of wrist guards that I think are just too small for you or I." Durackh replied. "But I think that they will fit you." She held them out to Tabinah.

The dunmer was very glad to see that there was no blood visible on the bracers. _Stop being squeamish_ she told herself. That altmer died for being a fool. Taking these was practical. So she took them, grateful that her hands weren't shaking visibly. "Thank you."

The Orismer's grin made her think that Durakh had picked up on what she'd been thinking.

"Now let uss ssee what else the river providess." Er'Jasleen made her slow way out to the floating containers.


End file.
